It's the Open Road
by Sahkess
Summary: He's driving in the car he's been in his entire life, one of two unshakable constants in his world. And since one of his two unshakable, unbeatable, infallible constants has just disappeared into thin air, this car is all he has left. A moment in Sam's life shortly after Dean's disappearance. Minor language, adult theme. **Spoilers up through 8x08 Hunteri Heroici.


_It's the Open Road_

Summary: _He's driving in the car he's been in his entire life, one of two unshakable constants in his world. And since one of his two unshakable, unbeatable, infallible constants has just disappeared into thin air, this car is all he has left_. A moment in Sam's life shortly after Dean's disappearance.

Warnings: language, adult theme. This fic is pretty dark, so a warning for the excessive angsty-ness

Spoilers for 8x08 Hunteri Heroici and the storylines leading up to it. Don't read if you haven't seen the new season!

A/N: Watched the new episode of SPN, and heard a line in it that just resonated in my head until I wrote it down…the rest of this just kind of followed. I'll be regretting this break from working later when the due dates for my projects come up, but oh well! Apparently I'm in a "let's throw the angst on Sam" mood…hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: Supernatural's not mine. *sigh…*

* * *

"Is that your car outside? The Impala?"

"Yeah, it was my dad's."

_It was my brother's, too._

* * *

He's driving.

Usually there's a destination in mind for people who drive. A select few crave the open road merely for the path and not the end point, the ones who savor the rush of the wind whistling through the windows and the open horizon above the dash. They drive just to drive, to point their compass in no direction and follow the winding trail laid out before them on asphalt.

They tend to be considered car hippies. For the most part, people drive to get from point A to point B. They may enjoy the trip, complete with rock music blaring through the speakers and a companion who never ceases to crack the perfect jokes or ask all the obnoxious questions, a map to follow or not to follow with the end result being quite a few U-turns until the proper turn off is found, and a rumble beneath the seat as the baby purrs along its way. But the trip is just that: a means to an end, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Most people focus on the destination.

He's not.

He's just driving.

He's driving in the car he's been in his entire life, one of two unshakable constants in his world. This car has been a playground, a bed, a safe haven, a prison, a prize, an annoyance, a competition, and, once, a salvation. And since one of his two unshakable, unbeatable, infallible constants has just disappeared into thin air, this car is all he has left.

But right now, without the companion in the seat he currently occupies, without the warm comfort of family filling the air…this car is a stranger. Alien.

* * *

He drives until he meets the water's edge. It's a beautiful sight, the way the sun reflects off of the water, giving its bright blue canvas a golden sheen. The sand is nearly pearl-white, glistening in the heat. There are no people here; this place is a private paradise, hidden from the monopolizers and tourists. It's a perfect isolation of heaven.

He doesn't care for it.

He gets back in the car and drives again.

This time he stops when he meets the dead center of the desert. It's night now. The moon is big enough to illuminate everything, casting long shadows on the cacti and looming before the mountains in the distance. There is very little life here, no wind to disrupt the serenity of the scene, no animal howls or screeches or scurries to shatter the silence. It's perfect.

He doesn't care for it.

He drives. He drives and drives until he hits the other coastline. The water is not so beautiful here, black and angry as the waves crash among the side of the cliffs he perches on. It's black like the paint on the Impala, angry like the rumble of her engine, like she too is angry at the loss that still manages to permeate the scene. There is no sun here although it's daytime. Clouds dot the sky to offer their shelter from the rays, casting a cool gray dullness over the world.

He sits for a while, feeling the scene settle over his skin and into his soul.

It's perfect.

* * *

He idles the car, looking out over to the horizon. He doesn't know how long he's there for but it must have been hours, because suddenly the sun peeks out from beyond the clouds as it starts to set, casting light over the cliffs and the water. It gives the scene a surreal image, grays and golds and blacks.

Black, like the black goo that spills out of the necks of their enemies. It covers everything, just like Chronos said. It covers the world in black ooze, and scatters all around like the friggen' plague. Gets everywhere, ruining everything.

It's ruined everything.

* * *

He's been lost before. He's been alone before. And he survived, mostly, carried on in his own way. But it wasn't a life. He wasn't happy, despite what he told himself the first time. He wasn't doing the right thing, despite what he told himself the second and third times. And god, what a disaster that last time turned out to be.

He can't do it anymore. He doesn't want to. There's nothing else to do here, nothing else to go towards. He drove without reaching a destination because there was no destination to reach. They finished what they set out to do. And now…this is all there is.

* * *

He wonders idly how far the drop is. Definitely far, the cool water is worlds away from where he perches. It looks peaceful down there.

Just for kicks, he revs the car as much as he dares, brakes still applied, but his hand is lingering over the lever. It would be so easy to do it, so easy to let go. He could let go and feel what it's like to fly, to really soar through the air and to enjoy the feeling of weightlessness right before he hits the water. He wonders what it's like, to be weightless. He thought he knew, once, when he ran away from his family and his destiny and joined the life of make believe, but he was never truly free, never truly unburdened. There is no weightlessness in life.

So maybe there can be weightlessness in death. But that's not true, either, is it. Another false hope, joining the wishes scattered through the wind that can never be caught. He's been to Heaven and Hell and there is no freedom in either.

* * *

And suddenly he can't take it anymore. Can't take the peace and serenity that has settled over this place, can't take the fact that the pathetic unsuspecting world still goes on while his has come crashing to a halt. He drove and drove and still couldn't get to where he needed to be, couldn't get home to his family. His family is gone. His universe has crumbled, and all the glue in existence couldn't put the damn thing back together again.

He jumps out of the car, engine still running. He looks down at her, the Impala, the last bit of his old life that remains, except for the ink etched into his skin and the scars on his body and his soul. She's a reminder of what he's lost, what he can never get back. All the tricksters and angels and devils and deities on God's green earth couldn't bring his brother back. There's no deals to be made, no bargains to be struck. No one's left to help them.

No one's left to help him.

She's gleaming in the setting sun. Beautiful, perfect, just like his brother would have liked. He did his best to fix her up, make her whole again like his brother has done so many times.

But now he hates her. She's beautiful and perfect and whole and he hates her for it. She shouldn't get to be whole. Not when he's falling apart, missing half of himself and more, so much more.

He can't stand the sight of her. Without his brother in the driver's seat, the picture doesn't fit. Without the rock music blaring through the speakers and the off-key belting that accompanies it, without the smell of cheap aftershave and burgers and gun oil and whiskey, it's not right. He can't stand it.

Before he knows it, there's a rock in his hand from the ground, and he's placing it on the gas pedal. She can see what it's like to fly, to be weightless. He'll be rid of the last tie to his long-gone family. He knows that all he needs to do is lean in a bit, switch the gears, and lean out. Then it'll be done. There will be nothing left to remind him of what he doesn't have anymore, what he can't get back.

He'll be alone. For good, this time.

Alone.

No.

Not after all this.

Not after MomJessCalebJimDadAshPamelaA damEllenJoRufusBobbyCasDean…not after all the crap they've been through and all the people they've saved and lost and everything they broke and fixed and all the sacrifices and love and pain and joy and hate and sorrow. It can't be over. The story can't end.

He sighs and takes the rock off the pedal, tosses it over the cliff to let it fall to the waters below in her stead. He looks at the car again, and realizes she's not perfect, not whole. She's just as broken as he is. And that's alright. That he can handle.

He climbs back in, squares his shoulders, and spares a glance to the empty seat beside him. His universe is still in pieces, but he's managed to find one to hold on to. And he's not going to let go, even if the Apocalypse itself were to come crashing down on his head again.

Besides, she's already proven she can handle the end of the world just fine.

* * *

He's driving.

There's no destination before him. There's no final point to reach. He's not going anywhere, not running from anything. No one to run from and no one to go to. It's just him, his little world around him, and the open road.

He's just driving.

End.


End file.
